


Remade As The Stars Fade

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Valar Dohaeris [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 13:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: “Some of what’s to come,” she starts slowly, and her hand raises to find his hair, “...things will look worse than they are, Jaime. But it will work.” It’s a vow to him, and she’ll swear it to anyone he wants. “I just need Lord Baelish to make it so.”





	Remade As The Stars Fade

**Author's Note:**

> angst and floof. Floofy angst. 
> 
> ***SPOILERS BELOW***
> 
> Jaime kisses Sansa this time around, like for real. She is roughly 20 in mind, but 13 in body, so if that bothers you, practice self-care. There will be more kissing from here on out, but no smut. Still, depending on how you are looking at things, there is canon-typical underage things going on. Read at your own discretion.

** _j a i m e:_ **

Just an hour ago, a young girl had brought him a tray for dinner, and upon taking her leave had whispered  _ “valar dohaeris,”  _ before bowing and scurrying away. There had been a scroll tucked inside the carcass of his pheasant with an address, a time, and a small wolf etched in red ink. 

The place he’d arrived in is not far from Flea Bottom, but it’s clean and private, and well-stocked. It’s obvious that Sansa has arranged this with Varys, somehow, and while he’s wary of the Spider still, he can’t help but feel pathetically grateful for this respite. 

Exhaustion from his earlier attack still weighs heavy on him and his muscles ache as if he’s covered in a giant bruise, but it’s his mind that he wishes he could rest. Since leaving Sansa hours ago, what small measure of peace he’d been able to find with her has disappeared. His mind races, cycling through a range of ‘what-ifs’, each one more catastrophic than the last.  _ What if Joffrey had pushed her? What if someone tells Cersei? What if we had been seen? What if he’s too late next time? What if, what if, what if?  _

He can’t relax, every muscle tense and coiled to spring, and he can’t focus on any one thought long enough to try to plan for it. But in the quiet of this small refuge they’ve been gifted, his shoulders slump a little and he drops some of the stiffness he’s been carrying around.  _ He’s safe, and she’ll be safe soon too, here with him.  _ It’s not much, but it’s enough for now. 

He rests his face in his hand, elbows on the small table and tries to stop the images from today, from the time  _ before,  _ from overtaking his mind. 

** _S a n s a:_ **

It’s not hard to bribe her sister into helping. Arya is eager to help, and wants to know much more than Sansa actively chooses to tell her. And while there’s a lot she can’t share, no matter how much she wants to, there’s at least some things she can share, and she’d much rather have her sister’s aid than frustration. 

Pushing everything that had happened at the gate aside is the easy part. Leaving the alleyway, leaving her husband when they both are so very not alright proves to be more difficult than Sansa imagined. There’s never enough time, never enough privacy, and while she trusts Varys to help them where he can, there will be no saving them should Cersei—or someone loyal to her—find them in such a position. 

None of the threats change just how much she needs to see him, how much she  _ wants  _ to be by his side. As much as she is reliving some of her worst memories, he is too. The way he had grabbed her, had rushed them out of there, the dangerous lie about being summoned by the Queen that could have been used against them if Joffrey had the sense to follow up….

She had returned to the Prince later, in an attempt to distract him by giving him more of an opportunity to preen, and it seemingly had worked. For now. 

Sansa doesn’t know how Varys manages it, but she’s long accepted that the Spider of King’s Landing has many secrets and ties. How expansive is his web now, now that he knows exactly what they are up against? How many people does he have navigating the strings to bring him what he needs when he needs it? 

For now she doesn’t need to know the answer. He is no threat  _ yet _ , and the address that is provided to her during supper removes a tension in her neck she hadn’t realized she’s been carrying with her. 

All Arya has to do is stall and cover for her, and in return she’s promised to share more, to tell her sister some more of what’s  _ really _ going on, and she decides the trade is more than fair. It’s only a matter of time before Arya chooses to take matters into her own hands, and this trade is far better than that coming to be a reality. 

The trick of the matter is getting to the address which is so far out in the city without being noticed, without being stopped. The cloak covers her hair, and the fabric is much more practical than fine. The dagger is clutched tightly, hidden in the folds of the fabric as she makes her way quickly. 

It might be an unreasonable assumption, but she assumes when she makes it to the door unnoticed that somehow Varys has ensured safe passage as well. 

“Jaime?” She calls softly once she closes the door behind her, and removes the cloak. The inside of the home is... _ more  _ than what she had been expecting, and as she turns into the next room and spies her husband it’s the first moment that she feels truly like  _ herself _ . She’s not foolish enough to believe that there are no eyes on them—it wouldn’t be like Varys to not check in at some point—but if there are they belong to a current ally, and, more importantly, Sansa doesn’t care. 

Her footsteps echo behind her as she strides across the room to where he is at the table, her hand finding his hair. She’s always found comfort in playing with the golden strands that had once been littered with gray hairs, only this time there’s no beard to playfully tug at. 

She misses it. Terribly. 

Sansa ducks her head to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Hello, husband.”

** _j a i m e:_ **

His neck goes boneless as her fingers twine through his hair, and he leans his head back against her. It even  _ feels _ off. She’s still sticks and bones, gangly limbs, none of the winter-honed wirey softness he remembers. But she smells the same, somehow, a scent he’d nearly forgotten, and her fingers scratch at his scalp the same way, too. It’s enough. 

“Wife,” he hums, eyes closed, but he reaches around her waist to pull her into his side. That calm from earlier, it slowly seeps back into him, and all at once, he heaves a shuddering sigh, and pulls back to look at her. “I truly am sorry for earlier,” he whispers, a thumb running in circles at her hip. 

He knows very well now, looking in retrospect, that his lie about tea with the Queen could very well be what damns them. It had been stupid, but how else to explain his presence? Ned Stark had no authority to send Kingsguard to do his bidding, and Joffrey was already present. Truthfully, he hadn’t even put that much consideration into it, but his only other option would’ve been to call Joffrey away and that was the opposite of what he wanted. 

He had  _ needed _ Sansa. If he hadn’t been able to see her, touch her, establish for himself that she’s real...he’s not sure how long it would’ve taken him to snap out of it. He’s never sure how much time passes during his attacks, but the worst of them have lasted over an hour, and even then he can’t usually shake the filminess over his eyes, almost like he’s hiding behind a veil. This attack, for how vivid it was and how far he must’ve moved—from the bottom of the gate all the way up the bastion and onto the ramparts—was surprisingly… not bad. Comparatively speaking. 

In private like this, he wants to pull her close, sit her on his lap or lay next to her in bed. But nothing feels appropriate anymore, and every time he goes to stand her between his knees, he stops, feeling like a licentious cad. He huffs a laugh. “I don’t know where to touch you like this,” he admits, wryly. “I feel like a green boy. Everything seems so very… off-limits.” 

She looks tired, but it’s no wonder. She’s been juggling all manners of things ever since they had arrived. Arya’s lessons, Cersei and Joffrey’s summons, meeting with him, and now Varys, as well. And that’s on top of all her regular duties as the daughter of a Lord Paramount. And somewhere in there, she’s found time to sew clothing for half the Northron retinue. “Are you alright?” He asks her, finally. Sansa worries about everyone, but everyone had always forgotten to worry about Sansa in their last life. 

** _s a n s a:_ **

He tugs her close and Sansa steps easily into it while her fingers continue to massage his scalp. There’s no worry if someone stumbling upon them, and the door is firmly locked behind them. For the first time since she’s woken up in this life, there’s a small measure of security ensuring that they won’t be interrupted or overheard. At least by those who would wish them any harm. The thought gives her pause, her fingers freezing in her husband’s hair as she considers. 

How has she managed so long without this? 

And if it’s been so very tiring and frustrating for her, how must Jaime feel? 

Sansa blows out a soft breath, the circles his thumb makes relaxes her with every swoop around the bone that just so slightly protrudes at her hip. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” she says, and it’s paired with a silent promise to do whatever she can to make sure that he won’t suffer such moments in this lifetime again. Cersei won’t be able to bait her twin with the death of his wife, not if she isn’t afforded the opportunity to truly rule nor access to any of the real power the Iron Throne provides. “I found Joffrey later. I think all may be forgotten for now.” And if it comes back up again, she will be ready with another excuse, another sweet song that distracts Joffrey before he can alert his mother to anything that could jeopardize them. 

It’s a gamble, but providing the Prince with another distraction, perhaps another small monopoly over her time and attention, may be just enough to make him forget his Uncle’s display atop the gate, and the fib he had used to guarantee their escape. 

And even if there are consequences, Sansa doesn’t particularly care. Mayhaps she  _ should.  _ Their survival, their plans to change the very course of history relies on so much stability, and they won’t be afforded many mistakes. But she had see her husband’s face, and in that moment getting them away from that particular spot in King’s Landing had been more pressing.

“I’m not concerned with myself at the moment, Jaime.” The words come instinctually, but that doesn’t make them any less true. She’s survived much worse than being escorted through the Red Keep by Joffrey, or being used as a tool for Cersei Lannister’s threats. Joffrey has not threatened her, has not ordered her beaten by the Kingsguard, or any other game he had once so enjoyed. She is not trapped within the walls of her home, in the possession of a madmen who had more than enjoyed bringing his torture and knives into her bed. 

She also knows her husband, and has a feeling her answer won’t satisfy him. So Sansa gives him a knowing look before kissing his forehead. “I’m tired,” she admits, though she supposes that much is evident. “I don’t sleep, not really. I’ve always slept better next to you.” 

It goes against every instinct she has to say it. Not because she doesn’t want to confide in her husband, or because she doesn’t trust him, but because she knows that there is not much they can do to rectify the situation. For now. 

_ Off limits.  _ She’s not entirely sure she appreciates the thought. 

Only his laugh sparks a much more genuine laugh from her. The kind of laugh that had always been shared between them beneath the furs, when she didn’t have to be the Lady of Winterfell, or anyone other than Sansa  _ his wife.  _ “I’m your wife, Jaime. I can understand some hesitance, but we can control ourselves until we renew our vow, can’t we?” It’s easier said than done, but that's likely the main objection, and Sansa makes the decision for the both of them as she deposits herself into his lap and offers him a teasing smile. “Surely you don’t plan on banishing me to a separate room tonight.”

“How are  _ you _ ?” And at the heart of it, that’s what matters. She can handle whatever the Gods throw at her now. She has him, they’re together, and with the information she’s begun to share with Varys things might actually begin to change. And it just might be for the best that they all get out of the city while they still can. There are too many dangers here. Too many ghosts, too. “Let me help  _ you.”  _

** _j a i m e:_ **

“I’m always concerned for you, Sansa,” he chides gently. Even in their last life, Sansa had always been tight-lipped about the things that ailed her, finding it a much greater use of her time and energy to fix other people’s problems, rather than lingering on her own. It had always infuriated him. There is  _ nothing _ more worthwhile than Sansa’s health and happiness. 

“Sleep with me tonight,” he says, more of a demand than a question. It’s silly to risk it, there’s so much that could go wrong, especially with how exhausted they both are, but she can’t function if she can’t  _ rest _ , and the Seven know he sleeps better with her by his side too. “You saved me from my nightmares during the day, and I’ll save you from yours during the night,” he promises, catching her hand to press a kiss to her palm. 

His sigh escapes him without his permission, and his eyes dart away from her. It’s instinct to hide the truth behind a shrug or clever quip, but just as he had pressed her for honesty a moment ago, he knows she’ll see through him if he doesn’t offer the same. 

_ Controlling himself.  _ He snorts, catching her waist as she drops into his lap. That answers that question. “I haven’t touched a woman since that morning we woke up at Duskendale,” he tells her, remembering the time somewhat vaguely, if still warmly. It was one of many memories he revisited often in her absence. “Though, you are, of course, temptation itself,” he says wryly, taking in her bony elbows and knees and the spot on her jaw he absolutely will never mention aloud. His wife has  _ spots,  _ it’s almost too adorable to bear, but then reality sinks back in. 

How is he doing? It’s a question he hasn’t answered honestly in two decades. “Not...good,” he finally admits. He debates how much he wants to share—actually, is well aware that he wants to share  _ none _ of it, but will probably be needled into it eventually. His wife is  _ persuasive— _ and finally tacks some context onto the end of that incredibly illuminating statement. “That… _ thing _ that happened today… It’s happened before,” he says, still unable to meet his wife’s gaze. 

_ I told you I break without you, when did you think that started? I am broken, Sansa, even now, even with you here at my side. I don’t know if my mind will ever recover from it, and it’s never been such a stellar mind to start.  _

** _s a n s a:_ **

It had been both concerning and heartening in their last life, the way he had fixated on her well-being almost to the exclusion of all else, when she never had time to think on it herself. “I know, Jaime.” There’s no exasperation, no speculation, no judgment. It’s a simple fact, one that Sansa had come to terms with a long time ago. Whatever others may have thought about their marriage,  _ will  _ think about their marriage in this life, she knows the truth. Whatever this thing that exists between them, that has survived death and has been given back to them by the very Gods who have given them all of this opportunity...it’s  _ real.  _ It’s something that no one, not even the ghosts of Joffrey, Ramsay or even Cersei can take away from them. There’s an odd sort of comfort in that realization, and a thrill that they aren’t the only ones who know it. Varys has come to terms with it, and everything it means, as well. Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy for him to agree with her plans. 

If the Spider needs Sansa Stark to help him protect the Realm, the Spider also needs Jaime Lannister, to hold her together. 

“Husband,” she chides wryly. “I always intended on sleeping by you tonight.” Though there’s a sort of thrill to his demand, and not in the charged sense that it would have meant had her body matched her mental age. For now it’s enough to know that he needs at least some level of intimacy between them, that he misses her presence as much as she misses his. Sitting in his lap isn’t nearly enough and Sansa tucks herself against him, her finger tracing down the side of his jaw. There will be no nightmares tonight, not with him by her side - and she will chase any and all of his away. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel,” she starts the oath in a promised whisper, Tully blue eyes locked with Lannister green. 

Duskendale. It’s too painful to think about, their last night together before...She shies from the thought of it, preferring to take the offered out.

This time Sansa does laugh, a loud  _ real _ thing that almost feels unnatural. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s laughed so freely, probably in this man’s arms if at all, and her eyes dance when she looks up at him. “I don’t believe that’s changed just yet, Husband.” She’s hardly a woman, let alone some great temptress and she can’t help the quip, even if it’s at her own expense. Perhaps she ought to be offended that her own husband  _ doesn’t  _ find his wife to be the epitome of temptation, but it’s hard to feel anything but content in his lap, in his arms. “Careful what you wish for, Jaime.”

The shift is immediate, and while it might be more prudent to have the conversation outside of his arms, Sansa can’t bring herself to move. So she grabs his left hand out of habit, and holds on tightly. “That thing,” Sansa repeats gently, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. “When you appeared atop the gate?” Where it looked like he had been living in their past life, and had grabbed her from the danger of the past, not that she believes she is ever truly  _ safe  _ in Joffrey’s company. 

“This task we’ve been given, you’ve been given… there’s so many memories for us.” He has the memories of two lives, each longer than she had been alive for in both combined. What’s true of the past might not necessarily be true of their present, and it’s a dangerous line to toe. “Is there something that causes them?” She asks gently, her lips brushing against his knuckles. “I lose time with Joffrey often. When we went to the Sept. Or Traitor’s Walk. The memories can be overwhelming.” 

To have an additional twenty years of them,  _ alone?  _

“I…. I don’t know if I can chase them away, Jaime. But I’ll try. I’ll help anyway I can. Just promise to tell me if it’s too much. Don’t hide from me. We’ve always been stronger together.”

** _j a i m e:_ **

“Good,” he murmurs, nuzzling into her neck, a little bit more of that unrelenting thrum beneath his skin calming. Sitting here like this, in this random flea bottom dwelling, they could be two smallfolk, coming together after a long day’s toil. No realms to worry about, no politics to survive. Just trying to put food on the table, and keep their head down, and pray for no wars and no famine. It’s too good to be true, he knows, and while he honestly doesn’t have the first clue about how smallfolk live, he’s roughed it enough times in his life to know that he doesn’t truly want that life, and he certainly doesn’t want it for Sansa. The image though, it’s idyllic. Peaceful. 

He leans back and quirks a roguish eyebrow at his wife. “My own knight straight out of a song,” he quips, then looks at her. He doesn’t swear vows anymore, hasn’t made a single one in this life, to anyone but her. She can have his every one. “And I promise you shall always have a place in my heart,” he vows, making his own edits. He’s Jaime Lannister, he has far more to offer than one measly  _ hearth.  _ “And me and… me in my bed,” he finishes, screwing his face up as he thinks. Admittedly, not his strongest finish. She didn’t marry him for his skills as a poet. He would’ve finished her vows, but they’ve already vowed not to sacrifice themselves to save the other unless there was no other choice, and to make every effort for that not to ever be an issue. He doubts she’d find a vow to give his life for hers very comforting. 

He smiles, musses her jaw with his nose. She’s wrong, she’s plenty tempting, just not in  _ that  _ way, exactly. “Perhaps not yet on the outside, but the rest is all there,” he reassures her. He can’t bloody resist  _ seeing _ her these days, and she’s not even out of childhood yet. The temptation with Sansa had never been her body, though they’d found plenty of joy in each other’s last time. If he could never bed her again, he’d be content as long as he had her near. 

And perhaps this is why. She wants to understand him, help him, even if it scares her. He’s not even sure it  _ does  _ scare her, only that it should. Sansa has never let fear stop her, not once. He nods, hooks his chin on her shoulder, and smiles a small smile at how bony she is. Six years isn’t so long to wait, for a chance to see his wife grow into the woman she’d once been, right? 

The smile doesn’t stay though, and his eyes look to the ceiling, as if there is help waiting in the eaves. He doesn’t say anything more, not yet, and just tries to think. But thinking about it gets that horrid thrum beneath his skin and beneath his skull buzzing again, and he can feel the edges of panic just beginning to hover. 

“Places in the city, usually,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “And...well, I don’t like Harrenhal.” It isn’t the keep itself that disturbs him, though he’s probably the only one. It’s a little copse of trees just about a day’s ride out. He wouldn’t even be able to find it again, most likely, but if he did, he’d be able to point to where the table had sat, where his blood had dripped over the edge into the grass below. “Sometimes someone says something or does something that jogs things loose,” he admits. He breathes in her hair, tries not to think about it, any of it. 

And then she says she gets them, too. He finally sits up, looks at her. Cupping her face in his hand, he just revels in the closeness for a minute.  _ She understands, of course she understands.  _ “We’re a bloody mess, aren’t we,” he japes. It’s true though. 

He shakes his head then. “No, you don’t need to do anything more than you’ve already done, love. Just… just knowing you’re safe, it helps more than you realize.”  _ She’s here, she’s alive…  _ he’s been reminding himself of that daily since the moment their eyes met across a courtyard in Winterfell. “I won’t hide, not from you. You can’t hide from me either, though. I need to know things like the fact that you’re not sleeping, Sansa.” Even after witnessing one of her nightmares himself, so bad that it scared her sister enough to fetch a near-stranger into their bedchambers, they still hadn’t talked about it afterward, much. At the time, it had felt like dwelling on something neither of them could change, but things are different now. With Varys’ help, spending a night together isn’t an impossibility anymore. They’ll need to be cautious, and use restraint with how frequently they make use of this little bolthole of his, but every hour of sleep she can get will be worth it for him. 

** _s a n s a:_ **

His ‘good’ causes her to shake her head, and the corners of her mouth tug upwards. It’s difficult to get used to, even now, the way Jaime gently insists on things that she’d once never expected to find, or keep. Before him, before falling in love with him, Sansa would have been content to continue being the Lady of Winterfell, unless Bran had wanted to take up his rightful claim as the Lord of Winterfell, or even Jon, after he had bent the knee, alone. It’s funny in a way, she thinks, that Jaime Lannister can make a cold campsite feel like home. This small hideaway in Flea Bottom is no different, because he’s here. Caring for her.

“You’re teasing,” Sansa groans, and her cheeks  _ do  _ flush slightly as she hides her face against his shoulder. About this time in their previous lives, that’s what she would have been focused on. The Knights coming in for the Tourney, or even the Golden Lion of Lannister himself. It had been all stories and songs and dreams until reality had come crashing down, in King’s Landing no less. But he edits the vow, and Sansa looks up again with a raised eyebrow as she tries to anticipate where he’s going.

“ _ And me and...me in my bed. _ ”

Both eyebrows raised and her lips pull into a delighted grin. “Is that a promise, my lord husband?”

It’s easy to jest, and tease and smile like this. But she returns his self-created vow with one of her own.

“As you shall have a place with me and mine. It will only be you this time, Husband. No marriages to Tyrion, or to Ramsay. Just you and me, until the end of my days.”

Every instinct has to be shifted somehow. Every time she wants to move in for a kiss, she must divert its intended path to something much more innocent. The intimacy is there, but she misses that part of them too. “I suppose you’re right,” she admits as if it’s some great hardship, and it’s paired with a small pinch to prove she’s not truly upset. Just impatient. “I feel I must tell you that I don’t plan on waiting for six name days to pass before we’re betrothed.” Or even married if she has it her way, but that will be a conversation for after she’s secured them the first.

Sansa watches her husband carefully, her fingers brushing against his cheek, down to his jaw, and even his chin. Here she can touch him as much as she pleases, here there is no reason to hide and she hasn’t been afforded the proper amount of time to inspect him, to learn of all the new changes and to make sure he’s really okay.

“I don’t imagine you would,” she replies softly, leaning forward to press gentle kisses to each eyelid, hoping to banish thoughts of the cursed castle from his mind. She had only heard of how he lost his sword hand in their first lives, and even with the knowledge that he still currently possesses the hand he lost...It doesn’t chase the memories away. Her body no longer is riddled with Ramsay’s scars, but at night she sometimes can still feel what he had done to her while... No, time may not heal all wounds, but it helps.

When you’re not sent to potentially relive them, maybe. Their failure may mean just that, or worse.

Which is why Sansa won’t allow them to fail.

She listens to Jaime speak, and lets him find the comfort in her hair that he always seemed to find before. “I forget too. I forget and then suddenly I’m there, and the two memories bleed together where sometimes it’s hard to reconcile what’s actually being said, compared to what I remember. Most of mine come from dreams.” And she doesn’t know why she’s telling him all of this, not when he so clearly has his own but...Maybe it will help. They’re together, and if they can survive what’s coming in the time ahead of them, they’ll survive this monster as well.

And suddenly he’s so close and Sansa nods, running both hands through his hair. They are a mess. “Together, Jaime.”

She doesn’t need to be within the walls of Winterfell to win this. She just needs to be by his side.

“I am. We can steal every moment we can afford to. If you send word I’ll come. Every time.” And it’s a promise she can guarantee, with Varys help. Perhaps it’s the single most important thing that he’s given her in order to earn her trust. If she can make her husband’s time in King’s Landing even a fraction easier...Then she’s in the Master of Whisperers’ debt. “I’m here, and I’m  _ okay _ . I’m with you.”

“I...” She trails off with a harsh swallow, but nods before resting her forehead against his, while her arms wrap tightly around him to hold him close. “I’m not particularly good at...” It’s hard to put into words, but the idea of letting go of even an ounce of her control  _ scares _ her. There are more important things to focus on, and if she loses control if she  _ makes a mistake _ it could cost them everything.

She trusts him. She trusts Jaime to pull her back together when she cannot. He’s been doing it for ages now without even realizing, and Sansa isn’t sure what will happen when he actually knows.

It’s an uncomfortable sort of vulnerability, one she isn’t particularly fond of sharing with anyone, including her husband. When she pulls back, only slightly so that she can see him, Sansa sighs before nodding once more, in defeat. It’s fair, and it’s no more than what she’s asked of him. “I’ll tell you,” she promises softly, and runs her thumb along the shell of his ear. “Whatever you need to know, my love.” Whatever he wants to know. “I’ll have to thank Lord Varys later,” she adds as an afterthought, no matter how much she knows the Spider still has left to prove. “To have this? I’ve missed you...I love you, Jaime.”

** _j a i m e:_ **

“It’s an oath,” he says seriously. Very seriously, with a very serious face. “You may not know, but I’m legendary for my oaths,” he says, unable to keep a straight face before the grin takes over. It’s true, though. He’s always known he’s not a man prone to a wandering eye. He’d loved one woman for almost the entirety of his last life, and then when he fell out of love with her—more like realized the woman he loved had died years ago—he met the Lady of Winterfell, the woman he still loved to this day, despite seventeen years without her. It hadn’t been a hardship to go without satiation, because there was no other woman who would sate him, simple as that. The place in his bed isn’t so much an oath as a statement of fact; every bed he’s slept in since the day they said their vows has had a spot left in it for her. 

Only tonight, it’ll actually be used, for once. 

“Until the end of my days, wife,” he vows, this time meaning every word. 

He can’t help but laugh though. His wife looks quite petulant at their lack of intimacy, one might even say she’s  _ acting her age.  _ “I remember patience being one of your more prominent virtues,” he teases, but he’s grateful too. He could go six more years without a marriage bed, but he could not go six more years without his marriage. “Thank the Gods, wife, I reckon your husband is older than Pycelle if you add all my years up together. I might actually have white hair by then this time around.” 

It’s quite strange to think about. All told, by his count he’s seen almost sixty name days. Perhaps not in the traditional way most go about it, but just because his mind is older than his body, doesn’t mean the years don’t count. It actually makes him a little dizzy to think about.  _ Gods,  _ he’s almost as old as his  _ father.  _ And that just makes his head hurt. 

So much of his life—both of them—have been so filled with one horror or another. Despite everything that happened with her and because of her, the least he can say about his twin is that she made the years before Robert died  _ interesting.  _ In this life, the entire span of time is just a blur of kingsguard shifts and time spent with Tyrion. But in both, he couldn’t hide from the venom-filled ‘ _ kingslayer’ _ every so-called ‘honorable’ man threw at him; he couldn’t hide from the consequences of his relationship with his sister, no matter that it looked different in both lives. Then there was just war and death and war and death. He’d lived through so many battles, so many wars, he’d actually thought after the Battle for Winterfell, that he might get to die an old man in his bed.  _ Fool.  _

The thickness in his throat as she speaks is nothing new or foreign to him, but for some reason, the pain is doubled when he hears his agony coming from her lips. It is bad enough feeling it himself, but to know she hasn’t escaped it either is a new kind of pain. He pulls her tighter to him, one hand clenched in her hair—still a novel sensation for his right hand—and nods. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “I lose track, sometimes.” 

Those had been the most dangerous of his attacks. The ones where he’d speak out of order, responding to something someone hadn’t said yet. Thankfully, there weren’t many remarkable conversations that were repeated after he had spurned Cersei, and no one had noticed his blunders. It’s a problem to guard against though, because the time rapidly approaches where such a mistake could cause him his life. They are in enough danger as it is. 

As painful as it is to know that Sansa feels this agony too, there is comfort in it. Perhaps he’s not going mad, or if he is, at least they are keeping pace. Whether it’s a side effect of whatever magic sent them back, or just the long list of horrors they had witnessed in their last life… if Sansa is experiencing it too…

Well, that makes it less his fault, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s not that his mind has gone soft, or the same madness that had taken Cersei coming to claim him. There’s comfort to be had in that. “Yes, my love, together,” he says solemnly, kissing their joined hands. “It will be enough,” he says, half to comfort her, and half to remind himself that this is an  _ improvement _ to what his life was like mere moons ago. He had refused to think about life past the trip to Winterfell, had refused to think of what he would do if he didn’t find her there waiting for him. It hadn’t been an issue, but the thought still gives him chills. 

For the first time since they’ve been reunited, Sansa trips over her words, and only then is it that he can truly fathom the extent of her scars.  _ Oh, my love… You don’t have to do this on your own anymore. Together, remember?  _ He squeezes her hand in encouragement, but he doesn’t rush her. When she agrees, the last bit of unease lessens its hold on him. It’s not gone completely. He knows that even with everything Sansa has done for him, he’ll still feel the effects of today’s attack for days yet. But he’s not alone, and he may not even be mad. And she’s here, and she’s alive. 

He holds her face in his again, and whispers those words back to her. “I love you too, Sansa. Until the end of my days.” And then he kisses his wife, just like he kissed her seventeen years ago, and six years from now. 

** _s a n s a:_ **

“Oh, an  _ oath,” _ Sansa grins, unable to even maintain any semblance of the straight face her husband so desperately clings to as he makes his statement. But even with his own jape she can’t let anyone think poorly of him in that regard, not while she knows the truth behind the name her own father had given him. “I do know.” It’s said a bit more seriously, and Sansa draws her thumb across his eyebrow, still touching any and everywhere she can to re-acquaint herself with him. So much is different, but so much is the same and he’s still very much the man she fell in love with back up North. 

“I have faith in you, in all your oaths, Husband.” It’s something she can’t stop herself from doing, and briefly she remembers snapping at Tyrion and her cheeks warm at the memory. She ought to tell him of some of the conversation she had had with her good-brother while Jaime trained with Arya...But, if Tyrion hasn’t mentioned it by now, she’s sure he will when the time suits him.

_I remember patience being one of your more prominent virtues, _he tells her, and she has to quash an unladylike snort. “I don’t,” Sansa laughs, but has sense to look _somewhat_ sheepish. “I told you I was a slow learner, and it’s true...I learned how to take my time and wait for the right moment, but there were times I drove my brother mad with my stubborn impatience.” It’s easy to get lost in the memory, a _happy_ memory, and she smiles fondly. “I told him that I’d take our home back without him if he wouldn’t help me, and then proceeded to remind Lords exactly what house they were sworn to serve, to come when called upon.” She may have even dismissed poor Ser Davos simply because he had served a King who had killed his own brother, and lost his head. If she remembers correctly. “I miss it.” She pokes where his beard had once been, a mix of blonde and silver. “Not that you’re not handsome, Ser. Devastatingly so.” There’s a pause and she smiles. “I look forward to growing white hair of my own with you, Husband, but we’ll be married before the Gods before either of us has the chance to.”

She’s already started to discuss her plans, her ideas with Varys. Her message had been simple, that they were going to need to follow Littlefinger’s lead until such a time that they could make the switch of information, and use the truth of the lineage of Cersei’s children to their benefit. The children will have to be protected from the King’s ire, though she doubts her Lord Father would allow anything to happen to the innocents in all of this. But still, contingency plans are important, especially when there are enemies playing the game who they cannot afford to lose to. Their move, once they make it, must be lethal. The blow they land  _ must  _ be fatal.

The greater the reward, the greater the risk Varys had said, but Sansa much prefers to eliminate all risk, or at least as much as she can, from the equation.

If everything goes the way she expects it too, Jaime’s nephews and niece will be safe, Cersei will be dealt with by the King, and Jaime...Jaime will be  _ free _ .

As long as he doesn’t mind spending his freedom with her.

Tugged so tightly to his chest that it’s almost hard to distinguish two separate heartbeats...Sansa has no doubt that all will be well. Her arms slide around his neck, her fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and she  _ holds on _ . Whatever this is, whatever side effects the magic has—though some of it she knows she’s carried over, the same dreams had haunted her back in the walls of Winterfell, too—they’ll sort out together.

He will be okay. He will be safe, and live. And that’s all she’s ever wanted since winning the Battle of Winterfell. Their happiness. The future of spending the rest of her days by his side.

It may have been robbed of them last time, by Cersei and the Dragon Queen, but this time they won’t have the chance. And she whispers the promise into Jaime’s skin with every brush of her lips.

“It is enough. Being with you...is more than enough.” It’s a damning piece of herself to bare for him, but there’s no one else she trusts more with every piece of her than Jaime. She doesn’t need the promises of songs or stories, or even to be crowned at a Tourney. She doesn’t need to be betrothed to the future King of the Seven Kingdoms, nor does she truly need to reclaim her role as the Lady of Winterfell. All she needs, all she wants once everyone is safe, and they’ve accomplished what they’ve been sent back to do, is  ** _him._ **

For as much as she knows that the Master of Whisperers will respect that and ensure his safety in order to keep their alliance, she knows one day should their goals end up in opposition, it can be wielded as a weapon.

Sansa pushes back the paranoia, and locks it away for another day, when it’s something a little closer to reality than a what if.

He doesn’t push her, he never has, and Sansa relaxes against him. A weight is lifted off her shoulders, and she just  _ holds on _ , wondering how they’ve managed to get this far without anything like this before. It’s the longest they’ve been together since she’s woken up to this life and now that she’s had a taste of it, she won’t want to give it up for anything.

It’s a watery smile she gives him when he cups her face, and she’s just about to echo the end of his promise back to him when his lips cut her off. For a moment, Jaime catches her by surprise, her husband who had just mentioned he’d been unsure of  _ how to touch her _ , but the confusion is quickly pushed to the side so she can eagerly take what he gives. There’s no shyness, no hesitation in the way Sansa melts into him, and she returns his kiss, reveling in how familiar it feels, and how it’s an instant reminder of  _ who _ she is. Who they are when they’re truly together.

If he means the kiss to be a replica of their wedding Sansa deviates by nipping lightly at his lower lip.

“You don’t play fair husband,” she whispers against his lips, not moving far enough away so that her lips brush against his with every word. 

** _j a i m e:_ **

Kissing Sansa is like taking a fist to the gut.  _ He’d forgotten.  _ He’d forgotten what she tasted like, and the way she always tilted her head to the left. Some half-formed noise gets stuck in his throat, and this time when memory overlays reality, it’s not a bad thing. Suddenly, he remembers every time they had kissed—in Winterfell with burning undead corpses as far as the eye could see, in her chambers, in secret, in the Godswood at their wedding, a hundred times after, and that last one, as she sent him on his way to find a disguise as the Dothraki guards closed in. That one had lingered. He’d always wondered how she’d known. 

It’s painful and heartbreaking and overwhelming and yet at the same time he thinks he doesn’t remember ever being as  _ happy _ as he feels right now. 

She kisses him like she always has, not afraid of taking what she wants, not afraid to give him everything she has in return. It had been so important to him, never making her relive her nightmares, never crowding her or making her uncomfortable, but she hadn’t wanted his caution. She had chosen him, and she wanted him, and since he wanted her, too, she’d have him. 

It shreds through the dissonance he’s struggled with, reconciling his wife inside the body of a child.  _ This  _ is Sansa. She’s always been his wife, there are no two versions. It’s just all her, all the woman he loves. They still can’t take it further, for any myriad of reasons, but having this again… it’s a good thing. She bites his lip, and he chuckles, low and pleased, into her lips. 

“That’s why you like me,” he breathes back. Neither one of them are ready to part just yet, so he just enjoys the closeness, breathes in her air, and runs his fingers through her hair, just to enjoy the sensation on the fingers of his right hand. “How do we get me off the Kingsguard?” He asks, half a joke, half serious, words still slightly muffled as he presses quick brushes of his lips against hers. 

** _s a n s a:_ **

It has always been like this between them, and while there had been no doubt in her mind, now there’s an added reassurance that it’s the  _ same  _ even now. Even after they’ve died. Sansa had never known how to explain it, how to describe exactly what it is, but it’s not something she’s ever had but with him. Her head cocks to the left easily, one hand traveling from his hair to cup his cheek, to anchor him to her. It’s not enough, never enough, and now that Jaime’s knocked down the unspoken agreement they had to kiss anywhere  _ else _ , Sansa doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to settle for less.

It’s been mere moons for her since she kissed him goodbye just outside of the camp of the Dragon Queen’s troops, while it’s been  _ impossibly _ longer for him.

And so, she doesn’t stop kissing him, and she shifts in his lap so that she’s facing him. It’s  _ easier _ , more comfortable, and she doesn’t have to twist her neck while she turns to meet him. The kiss is everything—comfort, a promise to help and take away what pain they’ve suffered through...But her own oath too. She may not be able to tell him everything she has planned with words, but  _ soon _ .

She remembers the nights in Winterfell, when the keep had been so cold and there had been no news of the dead. No news on whether or not Jon had been successful in securing the Dragon Queen’s help in fighting – the nights they had spent  _ learning _ one another other. She knows that chuckle, knows what it means and her stomach twists in a familiar excitement, and she smiles against his lips.

“Is that why?” She teases before her lips capture his in another kiss. She’s not ready, not really, only her lungs  _ demand _ it and her fingers clutch at the fabric of his coat. It’s the feel of his fingers running through her hair that allow her to pause, to catch her breath with the very air that lingers in the small space between their lips.

The Kingsguard.

She has plans, and there’s only so much she can share for now, though Sansa frankly isn’t quite sure if he truly wants an answer when his lips find hers again, however briefly.

Every kiss is met easily, eagerly, and momentarily Sansa forgets she was asked a question, and then the answers comes broken.

“I have—” her lips find his again, unable to stay away for long. “—an idea. I’m waiting to hear back from Lord Varys.” Another kiss.

“ _ Soon.” _

** _j a i m e:_ **

_ It’s like our wedding night _ , he suddenly recalls. They hadn’t been able to pull apart long enough to draw breath let alone speak coherently. When he kissed her, he hadn’t thought— it’d been so long that he’d forgotten how  _ swept up  _ they got in each other. 

There’s a sense of novelty there too, though. His lips haven’t kissed anyone in so long, he’s almost forgotten the sensation, the buzzing feeling they get when they kiss too long—so different from the buzzing that paralyzes him, a good tingle not a terrifying numbness. He relishes it, relishes his slightly clumsy tongue, the way he clacks their teeth together a few times before he gets the hang of it again. He  _ remembers _ this.

Every taste is savored, cherished, committed to memory.  _ I won’t forget this time, I won’t have to. _ He’s  ** _hungry_ ** , he realizes, though not necessarily for  _ more _ , just this, forever, until they run out of breath or until the Others come, or the Dragon Queen with her fire and blood, he doesn’t  _ care _ , as long as he can keep this. 

When she speaks, he just diverts his lips to her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, coming back to her lips every time she pauses. 

_ Soon,  _ she says. Part of him wants to pull away, ask for clarification. Last time he went along with one of her plans without seeking clarification, she ended up dead, and when he can bear to spend too long thinking about it, it seems more and more likely that that was all according to her plan. He doesn’t think about it. He  _ can’t  _ think about it. 

But now, they are the most safe they will likely be for years to come and he wants her secrets, wants to watch her brain in action, wants to be filled with awe at how brilliant she is, but… he trusts her. He said so early today, and he meant it. He’s done his best but he had had no intention of taking the lead in strategy and scheming once they were reunited. She’ll tell him when she needs him to know, and that is good enough for him. 

He stands suddenly, carrying her with ease—coming back to a body in its prime has been one blessing of his long detour from his love. Making use of it certainly has an appeal—and not breaking the kiss as he crosses the room and sits back on the bed, settling her in his lap again. 

“Just—”  _ Gods _ , she’s addicting, he thinks as he catches her tongue gently in his teeth, just to nip back at her. “Just kissing, Sansa,” he reminds her. “I must remain pure for—” his breath catches in his throat for a moment, and escapes as something pathetically close to a whine. “Pure for my wedding night,” he japes, almost losing the thread of his words between kisses.

** _s a n s a:_ **

There’s a brief moment when the thought flashes through her mind—the small hesitation that perhaps they’ve made some kind of error—but Sansa quickly discards it. Nothing about this, about them, is a mistake.

They can be careful, they will be careful. Just because they’ve kissed doesn’t mean that they’ll lose all control of themselves. They had managed perfectly well before in Winterfell—apart from all of the times Sansa had snuck off to find him, or the looks her husband would get when no one was looking.... or even if they had been, had been unascertainable to all but her.

She smiles against Jaime’s lips as they find themselves again together, it’s another small reminder of the differences in their separations, but his tongue finds hers and the thought is gone just as quickly as it’s come.  _ Wretched husband _ , he knows exactly what that does, and her back arches in an effort to close any remaining space between them.

“Jaime...” She tries to warn him, his lips against her neck has always done dangerous things, has the ability of getting her to surrender to anything he wishes, but it’s too damn late and they don’t need to talk. Not really. There’s plenty of time for talking when they have all night together. Varys will ensure that they make it back to the Red Keep undetected, and this will have to be enough until they can slip away next.

Only until pieces start falling into place.

And she knows she ought to warn him, remind him that Lord Baelish will try and talk to her, will try and do anything he can to pin a war between their families just as he had last time, but then he  _ stands _ and Sansa lets out a noise in surprise, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as she holds on tight.

It only takes a moment, a heartbeat really, for her to return to their kiss, their surroundings entirely forgotten.

She settles back comfortably onto his lap, each leg straddling a hip as she suddenly is hovering slightly above, creating a new—but favorite—angle for a kiss. “Just kissing,” she echoes breathlessly against the skin of his neck before she gently sucks at the delicate skin while he tries to negotiate for his purity. Lifting her head her lips find his again and she nods easily, though it’s terribly difficult to remember what she’s agreeing to.

“Forgive me, husband, but I believe our wedding night was many moons ago.” His teeth nip and she muffles a soft moan against his lips. Everything she ever learned about this, about how good all of this could be, she learned from him. And every tactic he had once used against her to attempt to drive her insane, she starts to deploy in her favor now. “Just kissing,” she agrees. “For a little while longer, yet.”

** _j a i m e:_ **

She says his name, and he can hear that it’s supposed to warn him off of… something, but she can’t quite hit the mark, too much want clouding the sound of his name. Hearing it does things to him, and reminding himself  _ why _ he wants to wait for their wedding—assuming she actually can figure out a way to get him dismissed from the kingsguard,  _ then _ manage to convince Ned to let them get married. But those are thoughts for… not now. 

Aside from a small yelp, Sansa hardly blinks at him carrying her, totally secure in her knowledge that Jaime can handle her weight. Of course, things like that are much easier with two hands. 

He groans as she sucks at his neck, and he makes a note to check for marks in the morning. It doesn’t matter who put it there, Cersei will be baying for blood if she sees it. But that’s not a thought for now either, in these rooms there’s no space for anyone but the two of them. 

He meant to talk about his plans with Tyrion, the ideas he has for Jon and Arya, meant to ask her about her own, what they were going to do about Varys… there are so many things they need to discuss but they turn to fog in his brain. His wife is seated in his lap and her lips are on his neck, her teeth tugging at his lips and  _ bloody fuck,  _ how is he supposed think like this? 

“Many, many, many moons ago,” he growls. He remembers her fear, remembers how despite her surety, she hadn’t been able to shed that fear until he had chased it away with lips and teeth and hands. She does the same for him now, chasing away his doubts, his loneliness, the nightmares that lurk in the corners of his vision. 

When he pauses to breathe, he presses his forehead to hers, cups her cheeks in his hands. “I  _ love  _ you, Sansa Stark,” he says again, because he  _ can. _ Finally, after so many years, he can say it outloud. 

** _s a n s a:_ **

He’s always been able to sweep her up into this, to consume her every thought and shut out the noise of the world around them. It’s no different now, as she’s wrapped around the frame of her husband, recommitting each reaction he gives her, no matter how small, to memory. There had been a reason for their caution, a good one that she simply can’t remember now that they’ve barreled their way through that particular barrier. It’s for the best, she reasons despite knowing her mind will come up with any justification to keep them closer. But perhaps in this instance it’s true. Maybe this will help conceal some of the charge that hovers in the space between them when they must pretend they are  _ not _ married, or so attached. 

The full skirt of her dress acts as a more than competent chaperone. It’s near impossible to feel any sort of friction between them and Sansa makes no move to even shift the dress a fraction out of the way.  _ Just kissing _ they had promised, she had promised, and while she struggles to remember to not tease his neck too much, to not leave any evidence, she feels that if that particular barrier is removed there will be no stopping her. No matter the consequences. 

The noises her husband makes are  _ distracting _ , they spur her on more almost in the form of a challenge. It had been one of her favorite games in their last life, what can she do to hear it again? What can she do to make him  _ louder?  _

It’s not the purpose of their little hideaway, and part of her wonders if this is what Varys had in mind while setting it up for them. Not likely. He’s trusting her to be the Lady of Winterfell, to continue their planning, to use whatever schemes she thinks of to protect the Realm. 

The Spider hasn’t accounted for Sansa Stark, daughter, sister, and  _ wife _ . Unless, of course, he has. But there’s no place for Varys herewhile she kisses her husband, and Jaime’s lips are thorough and  _ distracting.  _ “Many, many moons.” More for him than her, but she doesn’t really care much for details when their lips meet again. 

Her chest heaves from the effort of trying to catch her breath, but everything about her feels  _ lighter _ . Her limbs don’t feel so heavy anymore, her mind not so heavy and spinning in an effort to predict everyone’s next moves- or fighting back paranoia. “As I love you, Jaime Lannister.” Her forehead rests against his, her eyes fluttering shut as she catches her breath and wills her body to  _ cool _ . 

She should say something, anything, to warn him of what she has planned. The last thing she wants to do is bring the level of scheming that will always exist into this moment, to find it later in the night, but Sansa already knows once she lays beside him it will be all little touches and soft whispers before sleep finally takes her. 

“Some of what’s to come,” she starts slowly, and her hand raises to find his hair, “...things will look worse than they are, Jaime. But it will work.” It’s a vow to him, and she’ll swear it to anyone he wants. “I just need Lord Baelish to make it so.” 

** _j a i m e:_ **

They both try to catch their breath, and Jaime can feel himself smiling like a lovesick fool.  _ Apt. _ He feels like they can  _ do  _ this, whatever  _ this _ is, because they have each other. It’s a silly belief, a child’s belief in love and songs and goodness. And yet, they’ve known evil, hell, he’s done evil deeds himself, and he truly thinks with that beautiful mind of hers, anything is possible. They didn’t have the power of her mind last time until it was too late to change anything. That’s not so, this time. This time they know who the snakes are, can see the pitfalls years before they are laid. They stand a chance. They  _ have to.  _

When she speaks, it seems like she’s been thinking the same thing, only her thoughts must be much less childish than his own. A chill spirals up his spine at her words. “Will you be in danger?” He asks seriously. They can’t avoid it forever, he knows, and yet fear still swirls in his gut. One wrong move, just  _ one  _ misstep… They’ve agreed not to senselessly endanger themselves, and he has to trust that she’ll uphold her end of the bargain. He  _ will _ protect her if need be, but he suspects that prospect is just as dangerous for them as any danger she might be in. He’ll have to speak with Jon… 

“Sansa…” he warns, hating this plan already. Baelish is the biggest of all the snakes they face, more dangerous than even Cersei, and only less dangerous than Daenerys because he lacks her dragons. He knows that Sansa beat him last time, in a most delightful fashion, as well, but what if they’re missing something? What if he has some back-up plan that had never been enacted last time? “You have to  _ promise me _ this will work, whatever it is. That man doesn’t get to touch you. He doesn’t get to hurt you anymore, you have to promise me.” 

** _S a n s a:_ **

She doesn’t know how to explain, isn’t really sure how much she can share without jeopardizing everything that is planned. Whatever it is they need to sell it, nothing can come across as planned, and it must all appear like it’s come by chance. The only thing she isn’t entirely sure of is her goodfather. Sansa needs his  _ blessing _ in a sense, the pull that only a man like Tywin Lannister holds in this city. If everything goes to plan, the way she and Varys have envisioned it going as they set the pieces into motion, Tywin Lannister will have no choice but to agree. It will be less of a negotiation and more of Sansa listing her demands, none of which the great Lord can reasonably decline. 

In the slight chance that their careful planning has not accounted for something, she has contingency plans in effect to get them  _ out _ . The greater the risk the greater the reward, Sansa reminds herself as she watches Jaime carefully. This will remove  _ some _ of the threats they face when it’s all over. “I’m always in danger, my love.” She reminds him gently, her fingers trying to soothe away any fear with just her touch. “But no more than the usual.” It’s little comfort all things considering, Cersei still has a watchful eye on the pair of them… but just the chance of removing the blonde queen from any source of power, taking away her ability to  _ hurt _ them…It will be worth it. 

But it had been no great difficulty to come to the conclusion that her husband won’t like this. “Jaime,” she hums back teasingly, her lips pulling into a smile as she steals on more kiss, simply because she can. “It will work.” That's the most that she can promise him, and he  _ knows  _ it. There’s always danger in playing the great game that the highborn are called to. This is the game of thrones, and it’s exactly the reason why she can’t allow anything to interfere. “I can handle Littlefinger,” she says instead. She cannot promise Petyr Baelish’s reaction to what she’s about to start, or how she plans to manipulate the groundwork he’s no doubt laid against him at the very last moment. “He won’t have any opportunity to ever again after this.”

** _j a i m e:_ **

It pains him to hear her say that, makes him feel physically ill. Yet he knows it’s true, and he also knows, no matter how hard he wants to, and how hard he tries, he won’t be able to protect her from it all. He knows that all too well. The only saving grace is her confidence. Sansa doesn’t believe in false confidence, and she never has. If she doesn’t think a plan will work, she says so. Gods know she told Daenerys enough times how foolish she was being. 

_ No one can handle Littlefinger,  _ he thinks, but not in a derogatory way. The man is a toad. Honestly, it’s unfathomable how he made it as long as he did. He does like the sound of that though, take him out as early in the game as possible. He had thought many times over about just running him through with his sword, but he’d stayed his hand each time. He hadn’t wanted to change  _ so  _ much without Sansa, and honestly, Baelish wasn’t his to kill. It was probably foolish of him, and he hates the thought of what that man could do to her, but he relishes getting to watch him die this time around. 

“Okay,” he says nodding, his worry sinking like a stone in his belly. “Okay, just… be careful.” He pulls her closer to him, then keeps pulling until he’s laying down and she’s on top of him. They’re arranged in their normal sleeping position in the work of a moment, and he marvels at the way his body remembers. They hadn’t even been married a full year, and yet they have a normal way of sleeping together. It baffles him. Everything about her baffles him. “Together,” he murmurs, snuffing out the candle beside the bed. 

***

** _v a r y s:_ **

“Good morning, my dear,” Varys says, holding his hand out to the young girl who had been sent to rouse Lady Stark and Ser Jaime. “Tell me, Dayna, how did you find our guests?” She’s a clever girl, this one. Her mother is a whore, and she has two younger sisters beside herself that she has to look after. All three of them would’ve ended up whores as well if she hadn’t found her way into Varys’ service. She’s young yet, not quite ten, to his estimation, but she’s shrewd and careful, the way anyone who grows up in a whorehouse is. 

“They was sleepin’, m’lord.”

“Were they clothed?” 

“Yes, m’lord. They wasn’t even under the linens!” 

Interesting. Perhaps he’s underestimated Jaime Lannister. It doesn’t make much difference either way if they are bedding each other—Sansa’s plan is well thought out, and if timed correctly, almost sure to succeed—though Varys does maintain it would be foolish to risk a babe at this juncture. Not only for the chaos such a revelation would cause the realm, and the potential war it could start, but also for the fact that young bodies are not made to carry children, moonblood or no. He has seen many a young girl die from being forced to carry a babe her body wasn’t ready for, and it would be such a terrible waste for Sansa to go the same way. 

Apparently, he and Ser Jaime see eye to eye on this. 

“That will be all, Dayna, you’ve done very well,” he says, handing her a pouch of copper pennies. It’s not much, but it will feed her sisters for a moon, if they are careful, and anything more would get stolen by her mother or the pimp. He is arranging a change in housing for the three girls, but the youngest is but three moons old, and he has yet to find a wetnurse for her. Dayna has only been in his service two sennight, but already, she is aware how much her life will change. 

She darts forward to snatch the purse, still not quite ready to trust that he’s not tricking her, but when she gets to the door, she bobs a clumsy curtsey the way he had taught her. “Thank you, m’lord.” 

He turns back to his parchments, quill in hand, then looks up when she lingers. 

“Yes?”

“It’s just… I never seen it like that a’fore. They was smilin’, m’lord. A’fore I woke them.” 

He smiles to himself, a melancholy tinge to it. “Yes Dayna, I imagine they were.”

**Author's Note:**

> ONLY 75K UNTIL THE FIRST KISS! not too bad, right??


End file.
